


The Story of Arthur's Life

by Zetaori



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetaori/pseuds/Zetaori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Arthur's life isn't even a real story. It doesn't have a beginning. He doesn't know anything about his life before he's six years old, old enough to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of Arthur's Life

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to read/comment on LJ, you can find the story [here](http://zetaori.livejournal.com/5392.html).

When Eames says "I love you," Arthur doesn't know what to make of it.

\---

The story of Arthur's life isn't even a real story. It doesn't have a beginning.

He doesn't know anything about his life before he's six years old, old enough to remember. He knows he should remember more, but apart from sudden flashes he cannot place, there is nothing but blackness before that moment he wakes up in a boarding school in England.

There are no photos, no records, no people who knew him when he was a kid.

He never tells anything about himself because he doesn't know where to start, or what to say.

If a story has a black hole, a big lacuna where the beginning should be, it's not a real story.

Or at least not a good one.

\---

They walk through Ueno Park in Tokyo.

It's early afternoon, but they've slept on the plane and it had been late afternoon when they started, so it feels more like morning.

Arthur shoves his hands in his coat (Dior Homme, ¥150.000), and listens to Eames chatting  about how his little sister used to dial random numbers on the phone and one time ended up calling Japan.

There is some punch line to the story, but Arthur doesn't hear it because they walk past a newspaper stand, and Arthur stops to buy the Nihon Keizai Shimbun.

When he rolls it up, tucks it under his arm and hurries to catch up, the story is over and Eames stares at him.

"You speak Japanese?"

\---

When Arthur is asked where he's from, he says France. It's as good as anything else.

If he were asked what his mother tongue is, he wouldn't know an answer.

He knows it should be what language his thoughts are in, but something seems to be wrong with him.

He doesn't think in any language.

\---

Arthur knows more about Eames' family than he ever cared to. He knows names, jobs, partners, best friends, childhood stories, teenager stories, adult stories, birthdays, favorite vacation places.

Eames talks about them all the time.

Arthur thinks that maybe Eames misses them, but he doesn't know about such things.

He has no family at all.

\---

Arthur doesn't have parents. Most likely, they are dead, but he can't know for sure.

All he knows is they have left him with a lot of money and a name that sounds vaguely French, but it could also be German or English or something completely different.

He doesn't know the original spelling and pronunciation, just a multitude of possible variations.

As a kid, he spent a lot of time pronouncing his name in all ways he could imagine, but it never sounded right.

Usually, he goes for the spelling on his American passport.

In his signature, only the first letter of his last name is recognizable. It's easier that way.

\---

Arthur's first encounter with Eames is in Singapore.

It's his first real assignment as an agent, and he's nervous.

When he asks his bosses why exactly Singapore, he's told that Eames is a man who has money to lose. Arthur isn't sure if that's a joke until he sees him.

Arthur wears a black suit (Caraceni, S$13.500) and Eames wears something that he obviously found on the street.

Arthur has never met anyone like Eames before.

While they walk along the Singapore river towards the Merlion because Eames wants to take pictures of himself in front of it, as a souvenir, he says, Eames won't stop talking, and Arthur listens and leads the way.

Each time Arthur cuts into Eames' rambling to try and direct the conversation towards business, Eames smiles at him in a way that seems to be pitying, but that can't be true.

Arthur takes Eames' pictures. He disapproves of the abuse of the statue for these kinds of poses, but he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't know yet that one of these pictures will end up in his bedside table, hidden away in a drawer, but very much there.

"Arthur," Eames suddenly says, grabs his arm and leans in close. "I can call you Arthur, right?"

He probably couldn't pronounce his last name anyway.

"I want to be honest with you, because I think you're cute."

What?

"I'm not interested in this job at all. I just wanted this business trip to Singapore. I want to do some gambling, win a lot of money, get drunk, shag some whores and fly back. So you can either continue talking, or you can shut up and have some fun with me."

Before Eames, Arthur has never been speechless.

They continue walking while Arthur thinks about what to do. He can't deny how much he wants to turn around and leave, maybe catch the next flight to Bangkok, but he doesn't want to be accused of not having tried everything on his first job.

He decides to indulge this man for the moment.

He takes in Eames' stubble, the shabby coat and the cheap pink shirt. But he also takes in the loafers (Prada, £400), the silk red tie (Forzieri, £38) and the watch (Patek Philippe, £10.000 (probably stolen though)).

He's still busy judging when he sees Eames spit something on the pavement.

With wide eyes, Arthur looks down at the chewing gum in front of their shoes, and when he looks up again, a surprisingly bulky policeman has appeared out of nowhere and starts to shout.

Almost in slow motion, Arthur sees the policeman bowing down, picking up the chewing gum and shoving it in Eames' face, who backs away involuntarily, his mouth moving as if he's trying to come up with a witty reply, while the policeman doesn't stop shouting, mostly in English, but adding a few very visual expressions in Chinese.

Against his better judgment, Arthur can feel laughter bubbling up in his chest, and after looking at Eames' face, it becomes impossible to keep at bay.

Arthur has never laughed so hard in his life.

Eames is sulky for the rest of the evening, even though he's gotten away without a fine, which is a little miracle to Arthur and leaves him with an unwanted feeling of awe towards Eames' ability to wriggle out of just about any situation.

When they sit down in a bar at Clarke Quay later, drinking Tiger Beer out of bottles, Arthur tries not to laugh again.

"What's so funny?" Eames says grumpily.

Arthur shrugs and takes another sip.

"You could have told me, you know," Eames adds, his voice too loud for their distance.

Arthur looks up and raises his eyebrows. "Manners are not optional here, Mr. Eames."

Every time Arthur remembers their first encounter, he starts to grin, and at the same moment he feels a sharp pain in his stomach.

\---

The money his parents left him, it's a few million dollars.

It's enough to get him into the best schools and keep the youth welfare offices away. He's always been on his own, he doesn't need or want foster care.

Usually, he's left the country before they even know he's there. He's not hiding, he just doesn't like to be in one place for long.

He always tries to finish each school year at one school, and finally graduates about two years early in Japan.

After that, he goes to college because he's got nothing better to do.

\---

When he thinks about his life, he always thinks of it as two parts.

Before Singapore, and after Singapore.

Without Eames, and with Eames.

Not better or worse. Just different.

He just likes having one fixed point in his life.

\---

When he's sixteen years old, he starts to gather information about himself.

Detailed research, going through some old documents, and a lot of money give him a copy of a registration to a nursery school in Finland, dated two years after his birth with a name on it that could be his.

He flies over to Helsinki during school vacation and as soon as he arrives at the airport, he suddenly realizes he can understand and speak Finnish. It scares the hell out of him.

A taxi drops him off at the address, and he's allowed to look through the records. They say he had been in this school exactly one and three-quarter years, before he left without notice.

Where his parents' names should be, there's a white gap. He's expected as much.

He's ready to leave when someone comes up to him and introduces herself as one of his teachers. She says when she saw his name, she remembered. His stomach flips over.

They sit down, she offers him cookies, calls him _kullannuppu_ and tells him she remembers him so clearly because he spoke a language that none of them could understand. It turned out, she continues, that it was in fact two languages mixed together, and when they realized that, they were able to figure out it was French and Portuguese.

She also says that he learned Finnish quickly and compliments him on still speaking it without an accent. He says he hadn't even known he could speak it until a few hours ago, and she laughs as if he were joking.

\---

Before Eames, Arthur had no friends.

Which means literally no one. In his phone, only business numbers.

Eames started out as a business number, too.

He doesn't know when that changed. And why. If ever.

\---

When he flies to South Korea and fills out the entry forms, it turns out he's been here before.

The authorities are reluctant to release information, but about 500.000 ₩ later, Arthur finds a kindergarten in Seoul. The records are chaotic, but it is clear he's been there after Finland.

He finds someone who remembers him, and again he's told he spoke a language they didn't understand, which was probably Finnish, or maybe even French and Portuguese again.

He tells Arthur they tried to address him in English, which worked just fine, except he wouldn't say one single word in English.

He says that means Arthur probably grew up in some kind of English environment, but English wasn't the language spoken at home.

 _Home_.

Their conversation is in English, but when Arthur is already through the door, he hears him mutter in Korean how brave little Arthur turned up on the threshold each day all alone, and left again when they closed without ever being picked up.

Arthur almost wished he hadn't understood.

\---

Arthur doesn't know who he is.

He doesn't know where he belongs.

He doesn't know what his life should be.

But one thing he knows for sure.

Eames doesn't fit in there.

At all.

\---

He collects all the data on his laptop one day.

He knows he spoke French and Portuguese as a child. The logical conclusion is that his father spoke French with him, and his mother Portuguese, or the other way around. If these are their native tongues, they could come from France or Monaco or Switzerland or Belgium or Lebanon or Haiti or Guadeloupe or Cameroon or Canada or wherever, and from Portugal or Brazil or Mozambique or East Timor or wherever, again.

Which is not helping at all.

His passive knowledge of English most probably means he'd lived there before he was two.

 _There_ means the whole of Great Britain or USA or India or Jamaica or pretty much every other country in the world.

It could also mean he's had a nanny that spoke English with him, or his parents taught him or he learned it from watching TV.

Which is not helping either.

Then he remembers how when he started to learn German a few years ago, he was told he was learning too fast and that he must have known German as a child. The same thing happened with Russian.

When he looks into the mirror, he thinks that maybe he looks a bit Asian.

He thinks that maybe he never even lived with his parents in the first place.

He slams his hand against the mirror, hard, and the mirror shatters and his hand hurts for weeks.

This day, he stops thinking about it.

\---

By the time Arthur gets his master degree in economics and politics, he speaks about twenty different languages.

He's been to fifteen different schools and universities in over ten countries.

He thinks about where he wants to live, and he just doesn't know.

\---

Wherever Arthur goes, he stays in hotels. He rents cars. He buys the local newspaper, Le Monde and The New York Times. He goes out, sips coffee and reads them. Then, he throws them away.

\---

Arthur knows how to ride a horse, play the violin and he has a black belt in karate.

Arthur has read Socrates and Cicero in the original, understood Einstein's specific and general relativity theory, and knows the capital of every country by heart.

Arthur owns a few million dollars, flats in about twenty cities and more suits than he'll ever need.

Eames has none of these things.

So there is absolutely no reason for this smug grin he shows every time Arthur's near him.

\---

"I have a degree too, you know," Eames says one time, when Arthur rolls his eyes at Eames' astonishing ability to mention _the Sultan_ in each sentence, despite Arthur's constant muttering of _it's called King of Morocco, and you know it_ under his breath.

"Sure," Arthur says and straightens his tie (dark blue, Versace, 1000 Dh).

Eames puts an arm around Arthur's shoulder, in the middle of a shopping street in Casablanca.

"Why, yes, darling," Eames says and pulls him against the sad excuse he wears for a jacket.

Arthur swallows drily. He's not used to people getting that close to him.

"A degree in what? Invading people's personal space?"

"Very funny, as always," Eames mocks. "No, actually it's a degree in law."

Arthur laughs. If this document even exists, there is no way it's real.

Eames smiles at him and doesn't let go of his shoulder. The sun beams down on them.

\---

When Arthur was younger, he used to think his parents were special agents.

It was the only reason he could come up with, considering the lack of information regarding their identity, the huge amount of money, and their disappearance.

He used to think they left him for his own safety, and will return later, when the international situation has calmed down. Or they were killed in a tragic accident during a secret mission.

But the evidence could also mean they were criminals.

There is no way to know.

He just knows that the money he inherited is perfectly clean.

\---

"You are a hard man to find," Eames whispers into his ear.

Arthur jumps a few inches. They are in the Hermitage museum in Saint Petersburg, a few months after their first encounter in Singapore. They haven't had contact since, and Eames never showed up for the job. Not that Arthur had expected him to.

"Why would you want to find me?" he asks.

No one has ever tried to find him. He didn't know he was a hard man to find. He doesn't know why Eames tried to find him.

"Just to see if I could."

Arthur doesn't know Eames well enough to just drop it.

"You could've just called." There had been an exchange of business numbers. He remembers very clearly.

"Yeah, but then it wouldn't have been a surprise."

A surprise indeed.

\---

Arthur and Eames chase each other around the globe.

At least, that's how it feels to Arthur.

Maybe it's just a coincidence.

They just never seem to be in one place at the same time.

\---

"So what do you do for a living, dear?" Eames asks him over a bottle of wine (Châteauneuf-du-Pape "Cuvée Laurence", 2005, 89€).

"Business."

What Arthur does is buying and selling, traveling around the world, knowing the market and talking to the right people. He invests, earns money, buys suits and invests and earns again.

That's all there is to it.

Eames lights a cigar (Cohiba Maduro 5 Genios, 23€), inhales with closed eyes and puffs smoke in Arthur's direction with a smile on his lips.

\---

For a very long time, being homosexual or heterosexual was something that only happened to other people. Just as love and having a home and a family.

During all those years in school and college, Arthur doesn't have any interest in sexuality. He isn't stupid or ignorant, but he thinks it far more rewarding to concentrate on education, and he never really understands why it would be worthwhile to court someone and make oneself ridiculous in the process.

He has crushes, of course, and he understands them as part of puberty and files them away. They don't matter, and they have no influence on his life.

When he's thirteen, he suddenly realizes his objects of desire have always been male. He tries to remember how that doesn't have to mean anything, how he's still young and his hormones might just be freaking out and settle down again later.

Two years later, he gives up and admits it to himself.

He's in France at that time, and people are generally liberal. He's very aware that being gay isn't something bad.

It's just that he wishes he wasn't.

He liked it far better when he wasn't anything.

\---

Arthur remembers being disgusted by gay people, but he thinks he was also disgusted by straight people.

He knows for sure he's disgusted by Eames.

The way he dresses is an affront to the fashion sense of the modern world. He's uneducated and ignorant, or at least he pretends to be. He claims that _just having fun_ is an acceptable goal for an evening and for life in general. He tells Arthur things that are only acceptable to know between close friends, and even then Arthur would prefer Eames kept them to himself. Private things.

Sometimes, he thinks Eames says and does all these things just to provoke him, but he knows he shouldn't be so egocentric.

\---

Their first kiss is a weird story, but at least it is a story.

It doesn't happen in Paris, not in the evening or early night, and it's not their first job together, or their third.

Instead, it's in São Paulo, about ten o'clock in the morning, local time, and it's their fourth job. And it rains like crazy.

They've spent a few days mapping out some areas with their architect, planning the extraction and putting in some sightseeing in between.

Arthur has been busy translating and organizing, and Eames has been driving everyone insane with his boredom and occasional pick-pocketing.

Their respective flights are booked for the early afternoon and everyone is exhausted and happy to get away from the others for a few days, before they have to meet again for the actual extraction.

There are a few last roads to map, and while the architect draws and measures, Arthur and Eames spend the time shouting at each other.

They are both soaking wet and Arthur throws a fit because it's Eames' fault that Arthur's suit is getting ruined while he tries to shout some sense into Eames, and that's when Eames pulls him around a corner, pins him against the wall with his body, gives him a kiss and says, "I'll be missing you."

All this is so much not like Arthur would have expected it to be, so it's easy to think it may not have happened at all.

\---

When Eames says "I love you," Arthur doesn't know who "I" is. All he knows about Eames is that he can be anyone. He is even less sure about "you," because he has no idea who he is. And what he understands least is "love".

\---

Arthur learns early that Eames distributes kisses like pet names, which means he gives them to anyone who is stupid enough not to run away.

Sometimes, Arthur thinks it would have been better to have walked away from Eames in Singapore.

\---

One time, they are both in London, and Eames calls him.

"Do you want to go out with me and a few friends?"

Yes. No. Maybe. "Sure."

He doesn't like the bar. It is noisy and vulgar and ugly. He likes Eames' friends even less, for pretty much the same reasons.

He manages to stay for about half an hour, trying not to look at Eames who drinks one beer after the other, trying not to listen to their jokes, trying not to scream. Then he gets up and leaves.

He feels bad for not being polite about it. At least he should have said goodbye properly, but in the light of circumstances and company, if not acceptable, it's certainly understandable.

He's already on the street when he hears Eames coming after him.

"Baby," Eames shouts. He's drunk. "I'm sorry, baby. Come back."

Arthur doesn't turn around and keeps on walking.

\---

When they are in Thailand, Eames asks Arthur in the hotel lobby if he can recommend some whores.

Arthur says that regrettably, no, he can't. He can translate Thai, though, if that's any help, and it turns out it is.

A few minutes later, Eames returns with a girl he managed to chat up in the street. She is willing to come up to Eames' hotel room, and do pretty much everything (no need to go into details, Arthur thinks while translating) for money that is less than what Eames left for a tip in New York the night before.

Arthur watches them leave and return an hour, three drinks, two newspapers and one coffee later.

"I didn't know you could speak Thai," Eames says and slumps down on the bar stool next to him.

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me," Arthur replies.

"Like what?" Eames says and moves closer.

"Like pretty much everything."

For example, the constant throbbing pain in his stomach.

He doesn't know much about this himself, only that it goes away when he jerks off, and that it goes away when he cries.

\---

One time, during an extraction that actually takes place in a train from Yokohama to Osaka (but the place created in Eames' dream vaguely resembles Bangkok), Eames sighs and asks, "Do you _ever_ smile?"

Arthur turns around from the place where he's been hiding from the projections. "No."

Eames laughs and reloads his grenade launcher.

\---

Arthur and Eames have some kind of love story starting in Paris. At least, Arthur thinks it is, because what other kind of story could start in Paris?

A team of five have set up their main quarters there, getting ready for an extraction of a French business man who will have minor surgery in a few weeks' time.

Eames decides that's enough time to include some sightseeing, and someone else suggests that Arthur could be the city guide, because isn't he French?

Arthur doesn't say he isn't really French, and he doesn't say just because someone is French doesn't mean they can be a city guide, especially not for Paris, but he nods and takes them to Montmartre.

For a few minutes, everyone stares at the Sacré-Cœur, marvelling at the architecture. Except for Eames, who strolls away to the Place du Tertre to look over the shoulder of one of the painters, watching him draw a pencil portrait of a young girl who just won't sit still.

Finally, they catch up with Eames, and someone suggests that maybe one of them should have his portrait painted. A real Paris experience.

"Let's have Arthur. He's the prettiest of us," Eames decides and pushes him down on a chair before Arthur can open his mouth.

Arthur looks from one to the other, desperate for help, but everyone is just giggling and then they are all leaving.

"Don't run away," Eames threatens with his finger, walking backwards. "And don't worry, we're not going into the Museum of Eroticism without you." And then they are gone.

Arthur stares at the painter, who must have understood the gist of the conversation because he grins at him and starts to paint. Arthur has no choice but to keep seated.

He's scared.

This will be the first image of him. Ever.

There are no photos of him, at least not of him alone. He has been photographed at official events, but always from far away and under a false name.

Now there will be an image of him, linked to a date and time and place, and he feels trapped.

Something he thinks must be panic boils up in his stomach, making his pulse speed up. He can feel cold sweat break out at the back of his neck, and he seems unable to breath. But he stays and waits and stares at the patient, reserved painter.

One horrible hour later, Eames is back. Arthur greets him with a wide-eyed stare. Except for two cups of coffee, he is alone, and he beams at him, completely unaware of what Arthur has just been through.

Eames bows forward to take a look at the painting, says, "It's gorgeous" and gives the painter a folded hundred euro note.

Arthur stands up, all shaking knees, and walks around the easel. In the picture, he looks just as scared and pale and worried as he feels.

"If you find it so gorgeous, why don't you take it," Arthur says, his voice still trembling.

Eames smiles at him, presses one cup of coffee into his hands and rolls up the canvas to tuck it inside his jacket.

The rest of the day, while they continue their tour around the city, Arthur tries so hard not to stare at the bulge at Eames' chest.

\---

"So, where are your clothes?"

Eames shuffles through his things while Arthur is in the bathroom, washing his face for the third time because there is no way this is real.

"Aren't they in the wardrobe?" Arthur asks back while watching himself in the mirror. What is Eames even doing here?

"No, there are only suits," Eames shouts over the sound of water running.

"Suits are clothes, Eames," Arthur sighs and strolls into the bedroom.

"Okay," Eames gives in, "so where are your other clothes?"

Arthur thinks about how he got here, but he knows exactly. It's just that he doesn't remember how Eames got here, and that doesn't count, does it?

"What other clothes?" Arthur says, momentarily distracted by doubting reality.

"Well, other clothes. Free-time clothes."

Arthur smiles at the lost expression on Eames' face. "I don't have any."

"You don't..." Eames begins, clears his throat and starts again. "So what do you wear in your free time?"

Arthur looks down at his pants, shirt and waistcoat (Yves Saint-Laurent, $3000). "This?"

Eames takes his face into his hands and kisses him breathless.

\---

Arthur calls Eames to arrange their next meeting. He knows Eames is already in the country, but hasn't been updated on the plan. As always, it's Arthur's duty to check up on him and make sure he's coming at all.

"Eames, it's Arthur," he says.

"Shut up, darling," Eames interrupts him. "I'm watching the Simpsons."

Arthur debates feeling insulted.

"God, I missed the Simpsons so much," Eames says, and it's only then Arthur realizes Eames hasn't hung up on him yet.

"Didn't you get them in Lagos?"

"I don't know. I never looked."

Arthur laughs, and Eames laughs too. He promises to call again later, slumps down on the bed and turns on the TV.

\---

"So," Eames continues. "Where is your stuff?"

Arthur tries to remember how to breathe.

"My stuff?" he says and has a feeling of déjà vu.

"Yeah, your stuff." Eames speaks slowly as if Arthur were stupid.

Arthur feels stupid, too. Maybe he should sit down. "What stuff?" he asks back.

Eames scratches his chin while considering the question. Arthur likes the sound of stubble under fingernails. "Well, the stuff you own."

Arthur owns a lot of things. He owns suits, shirts, ties, shoes, jewellery, watches, handkerchiefs and cuff links. He owns flats, suitcases, wallets, and probably a lot more he just can't think of right now.

"It's all there."

"No. No no no." Eames grabs his shoulders and holds him tight, his eyes fixed upon him to make sure he understands. "Your personal stuff."

Arthur swallows. He thinks he's missing something here.

"Like, for example?"

"Books?"  
He reads newspapers.

"DVDs?"  
He rents.

"Photos?"  
He has one. It's Eames, doing unspeakable acts to the Merlion in Singapore, and it's hidden in his suitcase because he's still debating whether to toss or frame it, but he can't tell him that.

"Okay," Eames says, drops his arms and rubs his face. Arthur stares at him. He doesn't know what he did wrong. "Okay okay okay," Eames repeats and starts to rummage through his pockets, muttering to himself. Arthur catches unbelievable, and fucking incredible.

Arthur looks at Eames' hand that pulls out a little red die.

"Here," Eames says, grabs Arthur's hand, opens it and places the die in his palm. Arthur looks at it.

"What is it?" he asks.

"It's a fucking die, stupid," Eames says and closes his palm over it. "I don't even know how it got into my pocket. But it's yours now. Because everyone needs something."

Arthur doesn't know if he should thank him. He doesn't know what to do with it. But he presses it until his hand hurts.

\---

Arthur has never been in a relationship before, but Eames hasn't either.

Arthur has never been in love before, but Eames hasn't either.

Maybe that means it'll all be okay.

\---

"So what do you like?" Eames whispers from somewhere deep down.

Arthur makes a choked little sound at the back of his throat and tries to swallow, but his mouth has gone dry.

They are both drunk, Eames more than him, of course, but not nearly drunk enough for this to make any sense. Maybe they are lonely, Arthur thinks, but it's just a phrase and he doesn't know loneliness.

"Um," Arthur says. "I don't know, I think."

Eames emerges from under the sheets, his hair a mess, and Arthur tugs at it just to see what it feels like.

"Of course you don't," Eames says in that voice that he apparently keeps reserved for special occasions because Arthur has heard him talk a lot, but never like this.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says.

Eames chuckles, barely audible, and moves back under the sheets.

Arthur arches up.  
\---

One time, they meet in Moscow.

Eames has lost all his money and Arthur pays for the food, which is horrible.

Arthur searches his pockets for the chewing gum he's sure he put in his pocket this morning, but he can't remember if he had been wearing the same suit then.

Eames smokes one cigarette after the other. As soon as he's finished one, he lights the next.

Arthur finds the chewing gum and he chews until his jaws hurt.

The smoke burns in his eyes and throat.

They don't know what to say.

"Where have you been?" Arthur finally asks.

Eames laughs, but it sounds more like a cough. "Hell."

"Huh," Arthur says, and thinks that that is a place he's never been to.

\---

Arthur hasn't heard from Eames in over two months. His throat closes when he finally calls, and Arthur feels stupid for worrying so much, but he can't help it.

Eames seems to be in a hurry. He just asks if Arthur is going to be in London next week. Arthur isn't, but he could be. He says yes, and Eames says okay, goodbye and hangs up.

Arthur flies over a few days earlier because he plans on using his flat this time. He calls ahead to arrange for cleaning personnel in advance, and the flat looks nice when he arrives. He walks around for hours, touching furniture he has never used before and cannot remember buying.

He sleeps surprisingly well in his bed. _In my own bed_ , he tries in his head, but it sounds wrong. _Mon lit_. No. _Minha cama_. Not either. He shoves the thought away.

He doesn't know what to do, so he wanders around in the town. The first night is great, full of expectations and little discoveries. When he goes out the next day, it's all about revisiting all those places, and it's just not the same.

He stays indoors a lot.

Eames doesn't call again, but Arthur tries to convince himself it doesn't make any difference. It doesn't matter where he is right now. It never really matters.

One week after Eames' call, he wakes up and decides he'll make pasta.

It's a stupid thought, really, because although of course he knows how to cook, he never actually does it. It's even more stupid because he can already see himself eating overcooked pasta alone at his big table in candle light with Puccini in the background because Eames never showed up and didn't care to call.

He doesn't know what loneliness is, but that's what he imagines it to be like.

But he decides, no, he won't let Eames dictate to him what he'll do or won't, and he can cook pasta whenever he wants to. And if Eames decides to show up, he'll have the best pasta of his life, for what it's worth.

Also, Arthur has always wanted to inaugurate his designer kitchen.

He flips through cookbooks he's never seen before in his life and decides he is able to cook pasta without any help.

He makes a shopping list. He buys original Italian pasta, tomatoes (San Marzano), basil (Napoletano), Parmesan (parmigiano reggiano) and one bottle of red wine (Bolla Bardolino, 1969, £60). He carries everything home, unpacks, and stares at the food. It's an unfamiliar picture that he only knows from TV. He begins to chop things up because he can't stand it any longer.

He buys a car (Audi RS 5 Coupé, £70.000) to drive to the airport, in case Eames really shows up, and if he doesn't, well, then he won't.

A few hours later at the airport, Eames looks scrubby, tired and hung-over. The shirt hangs out of his pants, his suitcases are dirty and torn, and his face looks haunted.

But it's Eames, and he smiles when he spots Arthur.

"Didn't think you'd show up," Eames says, and Arthur blinks rapidly and pulls him into a hug.

"Woah," Eames says softly and shoves him away to look at him. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Arthur says, clears his throat and straightens his tie.

Eames follows him to the parking lot, rubbing his eyes like he's about to fall asleep on the spot, but when he sees the car, an honest smile spreads over his face.

"Let me drive, darling," Eames says.

"No way," Arthur replies and forms a fist around the keys.

"It's rush hour. The traffic is crazy around this time."

Arthur slides in the driver's seat and ignites the motor. "You coming or what?"

Eames pulls a face, but heaves his suitcases into the trunk and sits next to Arthur.

"So, where have you been?" Arthur says and Eames starts to talk. His voice is as tired as his eyes, hoarse and raw, but he keeps on telling his stories until they get caught in a traffic jam.

"See," Eames starts to shout all of a sudden, "I _told_ you to let me drive! Fuck!" His hands smash down on the dashboard in tight fists.

"I've learned driving in fucking Mumbai," Arthur shouts back over the sound of blaring horns, "so SHUT UP!"

Eames drops his arms and stares at him for five seconds. Arthur counts them. Then Eames starts to laugh and laugh until tears form in the corners of his eyes.

Back in the flat, Arthur strolls directly into the kitchen and resumes cooking. Eames joins him a few minutes later and snatches the wine bottle from its place on the kitchen counter where it's supposed to be breathing, deliberately ignoring the prepared red wine glasses to take a huge sip out of the bottle instead.

Arthur stares at him and drops the wooden spoon into the simmering sauce. Red splashes everywhere.

Eames doesn't even notice. He slumps against the freezer and raises the bottle again.

"I need to get drunk so bad," he sighs without looking at Arthur.

Arthur excuses himself and locks himself in the bedroom for a few minutes before he is even able to face him again, and by that time Eames is already too drunk to notice anything.

Something smells burned, but Arthur just switches off the stove and slumps down on a chair at the table. He isn't lonely. There is no eating alone, no candlelight and no Puccini. It's just him on a chair and Eames on the couch.

\---

Arthur didn't know they were together.

Neither did Eames.

But they were.

\---

They are in Berlin, and they should be on their way to the main station, but instead they stand on Potsdamer Platz, and Arthur lets his hand run over the remnants of the Berlin Wall in the dead of night.

There are few tourists and even less sounds when Eames closes up to him and puts a heavy but warm hand on his shoulder.

"Where are you even from, Arthur?" Eames asks, about one year too late.

"Ich bin heimatlos," Arthur says, but that's a language Eames doesn't understand.

\---

Arthur speaks Chinese with most of his business partners.  
With his tailors, Italian or French.  
In his favorite restaurant, he orders in Thai.  
And with Eames, Arthur speaks English.

To Eames, Arthur is American, because Eames is British. It doesn't make any difference to Arthur, so he lets him and adopts an American accent.

Eames calls him Arthur, with a long, opened, back, slightly rounded _a_ , a voiceless dental fricative and a _schwa_. Arthur is getting used to it and thinks he might actually like it.

\---

"So what is your totem, darling?" Eames asks casually.

They are at a business dinner with a very wealthy potential employer, and Eames is driving Arthur crazy. He interrupts Arthur with snippy remarks, falls into brooding silence whenever he's addressed, and he fiddles with the salt shaker until Arthur snatches it out of his hands.

Their potential employer insists on going down with them, so Arthur tells him about the necessity of a totem. Now Eames apparently finds it funny to mock Arthur with that while their potential employer has retreated to the restroom, probably bending over the sink in fear and confusion right now.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be much of a totem," Arthur answers between two forkfuls of salad.

Eames never understood the totem business. His grip on reality is perfect and unshakable and sometimes Arthur wishes he could say the same about himself. He suspects it's because there is nothing to root him here.

Nothing except the red little die in his pocket, and as much as he wants to curl his fingers around it now, he won't embarrass himself in front of Eames.

He won't tell him he kept the die Eames gave him on a whim, spent hours and hours drilling and filling and filing until it shows _two_ every time he rolls. He thought about choosing _one_. He didn't.

"Oh, come on, you don't trust me?" Eames says, and it's too loud. Some people's heads turn, and Arthur slides down on his chair.

"No, I don't," he says.

Eames laughs. "That's probably very clever of you."

Probably, yes. But maybe not.

\---

"What are we doing here, Eames?" Arthur says carefully.

He finds himself at a beautiful seaside restaurant, picking at his ratatouille while Eames butchers a huge steak with his knife.

"I told you! No more of this tiny _haute cuisine_ stuff," Eames grunts through his mouthful of meat.

Arthur laughs. "La cuisine, c'est quand les choses ont le goût de ce qu'elles sont."

Eames stares at him. "What?"

"I think I find myself agreeing with you," Arthur smiles. "La vérité vaut bien qu'on passe quelques années sans la trouver."

Arthur can feel Eames staring at his mouth, and he swallows. "I meant, what are we doing here, in Nice?"

"Oh," Eames says, surprised. "Isn't that obvious?"

"No," Arthur answers.

"Oh," Eames repeats, and seems to be in thought for a while. Then he laughs, and leans back. "Never mind, then."

\---

Sometimes, Arthur looks at Eames and thinks it's unfair.

It's unfair that Eames has so many personalities, and Arthur feels as if he has none.

It's unfair that Eames can have what he wants without even trying, and Arthur has to work so hard for everything.

And it's unfair that Eames only has to smile and touch his cheek, and Arthur has no choice but to forgive and smile back.

\---

It's dark and warm and loud, and Arthur cannot sleep.

He's been asleep on and off the whole day, testing out scenarios, running for his life, getting shot again and again.

Eames lies next to him, probably just as awake as he is. He's been down together with him, mocking flaws in architecture, dragging Arthur around corners, shooting people.

"Fuck," Eames groans, and Arthur can feel the mattress dip when he heavily rolls over.

"What?" Arthur asks, his voice muffled from burying his head in the pillow.

"God," Eames offers instead of an answer, and turns around again.

"What's wrong?" Arthur repeats.

"The noise!" Eames shouts so suddenly that Arthur flinches. "It's driving me crazy!"

Arthur laughs. "It was your idea to visit Rio de Janeiro in fucking February."

"I know!" Eames moans, his voice full of agony.

"And you chose a hotel right in the center of the city," Arthur presses on.

Eames gives a pained, choked sound instead of an answer and bangs his head against the pillow. "I hate myself sometimes."

Also, Eames had waited so long to reserve that the only available room had a double bed. Supposedly.

"But it was probably worth it," Eames adds all of a sudden.

Arthur remembers flashes of Eames' bright smile and his arm around his shoulder as they made their way through the enormous crowd, getting pushed and hustled along, the samba music drumming away in their stomachs.

"Maybe," Arthur agrees slowly.

They are both silent for a minute and listen to the music and noises.

Most of the shouting is too far away to understand, but Arthur is sure he makes out "Filho da puta!" and "Chupa minha rola!"

Arthur chuckles silently.

"What did he say?" Eames asks. Arthur hadn't heard him moving, but his voice sounds close.

"That's not translatable," Arthur evades.

"I'm sure it was something dirty," Eames grins.

"Yes, actually it was."

There is a pause, and then Eames moans Arthur's name, strained and breathless. They shift into each other and their mouths meet in a hungry kiss.

Eames' hand twists into Arthur's damp hair, pulling his head into the right angle to attack his mouth with his tongue, and Arthur moans back.

They've never done that before. There had been soft kisses, hugs, some lingering sense of tenderness and want, Eames' gorgeous lips around him, but never this.

Arthur feels Eames' shaking, desperate hands pull at his briefs, and he lifts his hips to help him slide them down.

"God," Eames says. His voice is just as shaky as his hands, as if he's unable to contain something, as if something is about to flow over, and Arthur is painfully hard under his fingers.

Eames moves around without breaking their passionate kiss, and then they are both naked and pressed against each other.

Eames is over him, rocking, his body trembling from the effort to control himself. His skin feels sticky from sweat where Arthur grabs for him, his fingers curling around muscular arms to hold on.

And Arthur feels it. For the first time, Arthur feels it, this sparkling, tickling, commanding sensation of desire. The need to thrust up and be crushed down and take everything Eames wants to give.

"Arthur, Arthur," Eames rambles quietly against his chest, his hips jerking against him involuntarily. "I've waited so long, baby, you have no idea, you have no idea how much I want you. God, I want you more than anything, anything in this world."

Arthur wriggles around, his body feeling alien and new to him. He's never been naked in front of someone else. He's never been in one bed with someone else. He's never shared his air with someone else. It should be scary, and difficult, but nothing has ever been as easy as this.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" Eames whispers against his neck, sounding as if he's about to go crazy any second, every muscle in his body twitching with the effort of stilling his movements.

"I want you more than anything in this world, too," Arthur says, his voice cracking at the end, and then he finds himself sobbing, his body jerking, rubbing their cocks together, and Eames grunts.

"God, I'm sorry, don't cry," Eames says, his voice torn between pleading and soothing and despair.

"It's okay," Arthur says. "It's okay."

What he means is that nothing has ever been so okay. What he means is he has never felt so real. And what he means is that he needs Eames so much he can't think of anything else.

"You sure?"

"Eames," Arthur says, his eyes squeezed shut, and reaches for Eames' ass to press him down again.

Eames tips his head back, grinding down almost painfully. "Please say you're ready for me."

"I am." Arthur is ready for anything right now.

"Thank God," Eames groans and reaches around to snatch condoms and lube from the drawer.

Arthur slings his legs around Eames' waist, letting him enter slowly, carefully, deliciously. He reaches up to trace over Eames' face with his fingers, letting them run over Eames' opened, wet lips, the stubble on his cheeks, the tension in Eames' jaw, and then he drops his hands on the bed to clutch the sheets when Eames starts to move.

The sound of nothing but hitched breath and the gentle rubbing of skin on skin on soft silk makes Arthur dizzy, and a few movements later, Arthur is sputtering incoherently, letting words in all kinds of languages roll over his tongue without thinking, and Eames just pants and thrusts into him.

In a sticky, hot, dark hotel room with the noises of the Brazilian carnival booming in their ears, Eames reaches down just in time to catch him as Arthur comes with an embarrassingly loud cry, coming over Eames' hand that keeps squeezing him through the waves of his orgasm.

Eames keeps on pounding into him with a force that leaves Arthur breathless, until Eames follows him with a deep thrust and a final grunt, and collapses on him.

The drumming seems to die away, but that's probably just his imagination.

Eames reaches down, pulls out and tosses the condom away. Arthur doesn't know what to say.

He wants to say something clever. He wants to say something tender. And most of all, he wants to tell Eames how he made him feel, but he can't find the words in any language.

Eames wraps his arms around him, pulls him back against his chest, and the sweat dries on their skin.

Long after Eames has fallen asleep, curled against him, his breath a soothing noise close to Arthur's ears, his chest moving against him in a lulling rhythm, Arthur stares with wide, unblinking eyes at the boxers on the floor. Eames' underwear. He stares, and he doesn't think he falls asleep that night.

\---

Arthur always has a plan.  
Except for when Eames is involved.  
Eames leaves him planless.

Eames finds Arthur's life boring and saunters in whenever he likes.  
Arthur thinks he couldn't live Eames' life of gambling and whims, and sometimes Arthur just needs to be there to make sure Eames is okay.

Arthur pours himself a glass of red wine and Eames a glass of whiskey.  
When Eames catches his wrist and pulls him down in a kiss, he tastes like candy and smoke and freedom.

\---

The story of Arthur's life isn't even a real story. It doesn't have an end.

He doesn't know what is yet to come.

It's full of gaps, moments when he doesn't know how he got there and what comes after.

It's shattered and most of the time, it doesn't feel real.

It's not a real story, or at least not a good one, but it's his life. He rolls the red die and it shows two white points.

\---

When Eames says "I love you," and kisses Arthur's nose tip, laughs at his confused face and pulls him into a hug, Arthur doesn't know what to make of it, but it feels good.


End file.
